Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Read Online Free PDF

Fox never put him no baby in her.
    She cover Black slavegirl poppet with feathers till she little girl-shape bird. Very strong thing, this poppet with her own milk and spit in it, blackbird feathers on. Very strong, suck all her life out, but boy-baby, he never kiss no White Boss feet, White Boss never lay no lash on him.
    Dark night, moon not showing yet. She slip out her cabin. Boy-baby suck so he make no sound. She tie that baby to her teat so he don’t fall. She toss that poppet on the fire. Then all the power of the feather come out, burning, burning, burning. She feel this fire pour into her. She spread her wings, oh so wide, spread them, flap
like she see that big old blackbird flap. She rise up into the air, high up in that dark night, she rise and fly, far away north she fly, and when that moon he come up, she keep him at her right hand so she get this boy-baby to land where White say Black girl never slave, half-White boy-baby never slave.
    Come morning and the sun and she don’t fly no more. Oh, like dying, like dying she think, walking her feet on the ground. That bird with her wing broke, she pray for Fat Fox to find her, she know that now. After you fly, make you sad to walk, hurt you bad to walk, like a slave with chains, that dirt under your feet.
    But she walk with that boy-baby all morning and now she come to this wide river. This close I come, say runaway Black slavegirl. I fly this far, yes I fly this river across. But that sun come up and I come down before this river. Now I never cross, old finder find me somehow, whup me half dead, take my boy-baby, sell him south.
    Not me. I trick them. I die first.
    No, I die second.
     
    Other folks could argue about whether slavery was a mortal sin or just a quaint custom. Other folks could bicker on about how Emancipationists were too crazy to put up with even though slavery was a real bad thing. Other folks could look at Blacks and feel sorry for them but still be somewhat glad they were mostly in Africa or in the Crown Colonies or in Canada or somewhere else far and gone. Peggy couldn’t afford the luxury of having opinions on the subject. All she knew was that no heartfire ever was in such pain as the soul of a Black who lived in the thin dark shadow of the lash.
    Peggy leaned out the attic window, called out: “Papa!”
    He strode out from the front of the house, walked into the road, where he could look up and see her window. “You call me, Peggy?”
    She just looked at him, said naught, and that was all the signal that he needed. He good-byed and fare-thee-welled that guest so fast the poor old coot was halfway into the main part of town before he knew what hit him. Pa was already inside and up the stairs.
    “A girl with a babe,” she told him. “On the far side of the Hio, scared and thinking of killing herself if she’s caught.”
    “How far along the Hio?”
    “Just down from the Hatrack Mouth, near as I can guess. Papa, I’m coming with you.”
    “No you’re not.”
    “Yes I am, Papa. You’ll never find her, not you nor ten more like you. She’s too scared of White men, and she’s got cause.”
    Papa looked at her, unsure what to do. He’d never let her come before, but usually it was Black men what ran off. But then, usually she found them this side the Hio, lost and scared, so it was safer. Crossing into Appalachee, it was prison for sure if they were caught helping a Black escape. Prison if it wasn’t a quick rope on a tree. Emancipationists didn’t fare well south of the Hio, and still less the kind of Emancipationist who helped run-off bucks and ewes and pickaninnies get north to French country up in Canada.
    “Too dangerous across the river,” he said.
    “All the more reason you need me. To find her, and to spot if anyone else happens along.”
    “Your mother would kill me if she knew I was taking you.”
    “Then I’ll leave now, out the back.”
    “Tell her you’re going to visit Mrs. Smith—”
    “I’ll tell her